The Two-Headed Dragon
by fragments.in.the.sky.named.you
Summary: Dandy's a freak. His love interest(s) is the dragon that tames him. His mother's depressed. The guest in the Mott manor is the only gay warlock in Jupiter. What could go wrong? AU.


**DISCLAIMER: Okay, I know I can't own****_ American Horror Story: Freak Show_****, but there are two things on my Christmas list this year: Sarah Paulson's singing voice and Finn Wittrock's ass. That is all.**

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><p><em>That was the WORST puppet show I've seen in my life<em>, Dandy thinks as he cleans the cut on his hand with witch hazel. The bubble of blood flattens, mingling with the clear substance. The knife he used to pierce the skin was safe at home, tucked into his pile of pajamas. However, the puddle of moonshine in his hand paints a blade's image in his head.

"And Dora _had _to reveal the Queen wasn't really pregnant…" Dandy squints, a tear dripping down his cheek. He opens the glove compartment, swipes a red towel from a pile of magazines, and blots the blooming cut. _Giroflée, it's easier to hide the blood. _Pressing his thumb against the rag, Dandy hisses and rests his head against the gilt-edged neck pillow. He didn't see blood stain his cuff, nor did he feel the stinging pain bite through his palm. However, that angers him more, and he wishes he brought the knife with him.

Dandy resigns the rag, folds it into a square, and places it atop the magazines in the glove compartment. Huddled in the cluttered corner is a paper bag. He snatches it like a bag of candy on the shelf, unscrews the crunched opening, and rummages through it. Inside, the kit consists of a sandwich in a plastic bag, a flashlight, and his significant glass baby bottle. Looking at the outside cover, the Sharpie insignia frustrates him: _Knew you would be heading out tonight. Don't worry, I have a late-afternoon luncheon for you. Kisses xx_

"Dammit, Mother." Dandy looks at the sky, a kaleidoscope of zodiac symbols hugging him with luminescent arms. The sympathetic wash of sunset had crossed him long ago, but it feels like it had only been an hour since he threw the knife at the wall, stormed out of the mansion, and drove away in tears.

Dandy reaches for the sandwich and opens the seal, but immediately cringes. No meat, no cheese, no ketchup—only cucumbers, a slather of mayonnaise, and the crusts Dora forgot to cut off. He flings it out of the window, groaning in disgust.

The flashlight seems necessary enough, as the need to bounce from plight to plight like a comic book hero is always imminent. However, as Dandy clicks the button and points the beam of light skywards, the darkness persists. Nevertheless, Dandy turns it off, tucks it into his pocket, and looks at the last item in the bag.

The bottle is already full, and the cognac swishes from every movement he makes. He lifts it to his lips and nibbles at the rubber nipple, but something stops him. The muted splashes trigger a rancorous laugh in its infancy, followed by a stream of _stupid white boy still needing a bottle—_a door swinging open, angry grunting, and glass shattering against a forest tree completes the coda.

"I hate this!" Dandy stomps his foot, swiveling off the edge of the road. Branches crunch underneath his feet as he slides down a minor incline. He catches his balance quickly, clasping the flashlight in his pocket. Whisking it out with a swift click, Dandy veers further into the darkening woodland.

Trees wave at him, puppetless hands reaching for his face. The soothing images of severed marionettes and the slaughter of royalty come to mind, and the cold wind whips at his neck in response to his fantasy. Perspiration dots his neck, chilling the brief billows of heat in his head. Dandy reaches out, trips over an upturned root, and staggers against a thin, shadowed tree. The black, aging bark feels like a bathtub sponge against his injured hand, and he languishes against it after a minor trek from his Corvette.

Dandy curls his knees to his chest, shivering like a child on a snowing playground. The merry-go-round spins in his head like the twist Dora added to the story about the Pregnant Queen of Karyvillde. Swings brush over his nose, failing to bring the swift blush of blood from a careless foot to his face. As the teeter-totter tosses his brain from one side to the other, the mind chuckles at how lifeless the marionettes were. The plasticity is relatable, but Dandy hates that even more. He feels so like porcelain, painted with the right amount of deceptive hues, and no matter how many times he smashed his head against the wall, not a single crack was made.

Staggering to his feet, Dandy circles his flashlight around the premises one last time, tearing up at the blank, nighttime glaze. He runs a hand through his frosted, cowlick curls, scratching his thumb over his forehead. The roughness of his nail reminds him of his knife, and a footnote reminds him to return home in order to continue his craft. Dandy turns on his heel, stretches his arm forward—

And the light floods over a crying woman's face, igniting a frightened scream from her. Before Dandy could snap at her, he stops as the flashlight's beam catches the woman's features more. The wrinkles of a thirty-something drape over her face like crepe; her hair falls to her shoulders in a short, obedient cataract. Brown eyes glitter through her rheumy tears, and although they quiver in fear, Dandy steps towards her, the other hand reaching for her with intrepid curiosity.

She flinches away, bringing a hand to her face. "No! Please, don't hurt me!"

Dandy shakes his head, bewildered. "Who _are _you?"

The woman gasps and hiccups, groping for the word to say. Unable to see the annoyance on his face, she dissolves when she finally chokes out: "B-Bette."

Dandy softens. "Bette? I've never heard such a name before."

"Please," she says, voice hoarse from crying, "help…my sister…"

"What happened?"

Her hand swats at her green headband, tilting it at clumsy angles. "Mah-mu-my sister, Dot—she's hurt!"

"Well," Dandy murmurs, "where is she?"

Bette cranes her head to her right, signaling at the flashlight in his hand. He broadens the glare, gasping at the sight of a bruised, bloodied Dot. However, it isn't the glorious myriad of injuries on her face that catches his attention, but rather the fact that there isn't any distance between her and Bette. In fact, they seem to be _joined together_.

Bette, looking down and fearing the worst: "Help us. Please."

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><p><strong>AN: ****I'm one of the few people who actually ship Dandy and the Tattler twins together, not because I think there'll be a happy ending, but just the sheer strangeness of it makes for an interesting pairing. While I'll be able to update it, I want to be more prolific when AHS: FS ends because I want to include some of the fright from S4 as well as the previous seasons.**

**Feel free to leave a comment telling me what you think. Thank you! :D**


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